


Milk Buds

by blodynbach



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Betrayal, F/M, M/M, Milkshakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blodynbach/pseuds/blodynbach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was a warm summer’s day, and a boy sat playing Snake on his phone at the counter of a milkshake bar. Above his head was a sign that read Welcome to the Shaky Shack!, and his name badge said: HIYA, MY NAME IS: the Outsider AND I LOVE TO SHAKE IT UP!"</p><p> </p><p>AU for Valentine's Day, the Outsider works a milkshake stand! Of course he does!<br/>(Also, with art)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It must be nice working in a milkshake stand

**Author's Note:**

> Whales-and-witchcraft drew some SICK art of this chapter and I am much obliged! See it [here](http://whales-and-witchcraft.tumblr.com/post/123494868886/todays-fugue-feast-prompt-is-aus-and-i-have-been)!

 

It was a warm summer day, and a boy sat playing Snake on his phone on the counter of a milkshake bar. Above his head was a sign that read _Welcome to the Shaky Shack!_ , and his name badge said: HIYA, MY NAME IS: _the Outsider_ AND I **LOVE** TO SHAKE IT UP! This, however, must have been a lie, as the boy sitting at the counter looked incredibly bored.

It was four-fifty in the afternoon, it was late summer, and the mud from the Wrenhaven across the road had been gently heating up all day so now the air tickling his nose smelled like old fish. This was not ideal, but, more than that, it was just a stupid time for a milkshake. The Outsider would have shut the stall if Management had listened to his protestations that nobody in _history_ ever drank milkshakes at ten to five. At four o’clock, and in the evenings on their double-dates asking for double-straws, giggling like it was the fifties and cool to call their girl ‘doll’ and tip him only one coin. In his head he liked to say, hey, dear friend, inflation is a thing, don’t act like it’s not, and then demand a fifteen percent service charge. But in reality, he thought about Management looming up out of the blue, and did nothing. He hated upsetting Management.

 _Blip-blop_. The Outsider’s snake crashed into a wall, and GAME OVER came up on screen. He put the phone down.

The Shaky Shack lived on the shores of the Wrenhaven, erected to take advantage of the summer trade that mobbed the river for the few months when temperatures soared into the 20s and everybody their flip-flops out. The shack got taken down again in the winter, converted into another one of Management’s Get-Rich-Quick schemes selling stuff for the ice skaters and old people that came in to check out the frozen river: lame things the Outsider couldn’t imagine anyone actually wanting to buy. Hot nuts, and fruit cake. He didn’t know who manned the stall then, and he’d been too cool to check it out, but sometimes he liked to wonder who his wintertime equivalent was. Alternate Outsider. Alternate Outsider probably had it worse, since old people brought their own special kind of torture whenever they had to order. Sometimes they made him read the menu because their eyes were so shrivelled, and then he’d rattle off name after name in a list that began with _Apple Fruity Loopy_. The names got much worse, but he had a special hatred for Apple Fruity Loopy, because it marked the beginning of a venture into stupidity 35 flavours long.

The Outsider restarted the game, but died surprisingly fast. He thought about turning the difficulty down, but decided against it. He still had his pride. He checked his watch.

Four fifty three. A shadow fell.

The Outsider glanced up, and saw a boy with brown hair a baseball cap that said some stuff in Serkonan on the brim. He was smiling a cheesy smile like he expected one in return, and his polo shirt matched the cap, that bright nasty blue. It looked like a uniform. Maybe he was here for some kind of sports tournament.

“Hello! Can I have a milkshake?” He had a southern Serkonan accent, not the posh northern one the Outsider was used to.

“No,” the Outsider said.

“Oh. Why not?”

“I was joking.” The Outsider turned the menu towards him, and went back to crushing the buttons on his phone. He was doing pretty well, level eight with difficulty intact, and now of course the customers would show up. Well, custome _r_. “Pick one.”

“Oh, um.” The boy looked at the menu, which was written in rainbow ink and as a consequence an absolute bitch to read. He just pointed.

“Can I have this milkshake?”

 _I don’t know, **can** you? _The Serkonan had picked the annoying one with strawberries and raspberries, and swirly cream and banana and cheesecake. Ok, so the guy wasn’t an old person or one of those annoying prep school kids from Boyle Academy, but he also wasn’t worth the agony of reaching into the back of the freezer where the new bag of raspberries lived. “We’ve run out of that one.”

“Oh, umm,” the Outsider glanced up from his phone, and saw that the Serkonan’s face had gone red. He didn’t know if it was the sunburn (the Outsider always got sunburned himself, never mind the fact it was only twenty minutes from the milkshake stand to his place) or what, but it was pretty disappointing. He didn’t meet a lot of Serkonans in his line of work, but the last one that he met had been much tougher. _He’d_ had a scar. This guy didn’t even have freckles.

“Can you pick for me?”

 _Do you want me to eat it for you too?_ The Outsider was aware he had pretty firmly jammed his angry hat on now, but he didn’t give a damn! This snake was twelve squares long now, there was a record approaching, and this boyo couldn’t even pick his own damn milkshake! He couldn’t even pick at random! The Outsider was not only making the thing, but doing _all_ the work except the eating. This guy was a bad customer. If customers had Management, and the Outsider was the Manager of this guy, he would be fired.

“I suppose,” asshole _._

The Outsider picked the easiest one, obviously, which was something called a banana snuthie. It was bananas and ice cream with milk, so he shook it up and handed it over and the Serkonan paid him the three coin. No tip! It wasn’t as though the Outsider deserved a tip, but hey, Mr Serkonan, so what?

“Why’s it called a snuthie?” the boy asked, utterly oblivious to the angry inner-mechanisms of the Outsider’s mind.

“What’s your name?”

“Corvo.”

“Why is your name Corvo?”

Corvo frowned. “That’s not the same thing!”

“I know. One is a milkshake.” The Outsider blew a bubble of strawberry chewing gum. _The other is a guy who doesn’t know how to tip._

Corvo didn’t leave, but instead, leant on the counter of the booth. He slurped, and the milkshake rattled up through the straw in the most annoying way which all customers seemed to feel like it was their duty to pursue on pain of death. His eyes hovered over the Outsider’s, um, body, and the Outsider was just getting around to the idea of being affronted when he realised that Corvo was trying to read his name tag. The Outsider slapped his hand over it.

“Why’s it say ‘ _the Outsider_ ’? Is that really your name?”

“You’re rude.”

“Am I? Sorry!” He only looked half sorry, he was smiling a little bit too, stupid laughy grin. “I think it’s a cool name! But I bet it takes you ages to fill in forms.”

“Ok, thank you for your thoughts on the matter. Very interesting. Did you know these cups are disposable? You can just take them away with you.”

“It must be nice working in a milkshake stand,” Corvo carried on, exercising his powers of obliviousness _wonderfully_ yet again. “I work in the mill back home, or I used to, for years. This seems more fun.”

“It’s not. It’s terrible. And spending your childhood working in a mill sounds very suspicious and in breach of child labour laws.”

“What?” abruptly, Corvo seemed to think it a good idea to _blow_ his next wasted breath down the straw, and bubbles exploded out of the top of the cup. “It was ok. My, uh, mother used to work there too! It was pretty bad actually. Boring and cotton used to get stuck in my hair. This is cool. Do you get free milkshakes?”

“I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Oh.” A bleeping punctuated the conversation, not from the Outsider’s own brick-like phone, but from Corvo’s. It was the theme-tune to ... some sci-fi thing? He vaguely recognised it anyway, and Corvo made a face.

“Ugh, man, it’s my, uh, is it _manager_? I’ve got to go!” He took a lid from the side, and popped it on the top of his snuthie. Then he crammed his phone into his pocket, until his face lit as something struck him, so he went into the other pocket. Something clinked promisingly, _hello_ , and Corvo slammed a handful of change down on the counter. “And here’s a tip! See you later, the Outsider!”

There was a jangle as the coins splattered all over the floor, some of them going off on a Great Escape underneath the freezer. Now that meant the Outsiderr had to crawl down in the fluffy dirt to claim his prize, but it felt like a pretty big – one, two, plus one on the counter – prize so hey, wahey! _Wahey!_ This did result in getting fluff under his nails, but it was definitely worth it when he reclaimed the shiny silver face of Emperor Kaldwin. That was five coin, motherfucker. Plus the tips in the jar, it left him well on the way to affording the treasure he worked this shitty milkshake stand for, in addition, he’d be riding the bus tonight. And maybe pizza? He was a king this day.

Whilst the Outsider was glorying in his somewhat unearned reward, two old people sidled up to rebalance a bit of justice, very much looking forward to the opportunity to relive their youth _during which_ they’d drunk strawberry milkshakes. Milkshakes which had been served by _a very handsome young man oh har har_ and the man in question was actually the old husband here _har har_ what a cute story. It took too long for them to stop nudging each other and giggling, and by the time they left the spill from the banana snuthie that Corvo had caused had set up semi-permanent residence on the counter and gotten very stubborn about budging. Hm. His warm memory of Corvo turned considered cooler.

It was then that the Outsider noticed that the tip jar was gone.

Not even empty, or depleted; the old people hadn’t dug their crabby little claws into his sacred shrine to supplementing minimum wage: _they_ had stood at the other end of the counter. _Corvo_ had been on the tip-jar side – _Corvo_ had flung coins _on the floor_ , and the Outsider had scrabbled for them like a goddamn pigeon. And now –

 _Oh fuck_ , the Outsider thought. _I am a moron._

Management was gonna laugh her ass off.

**

“Did you get it?” Daud asked, trying to make a show at casualness but grinning already, the big broad smile cracking up the lumpy scar that ran along his cheek. Like Corvo, he wore the same blue shirt which said SERKONAN ASSASSINS; the name of the national fencing team. He had the flip-flops to match, and was smoking a sneaky cigarette.

Corvo shook the purple jar up and down, and the purple jar said: _chhshhs-chshhsh-chshhsh_ , which meant, hello boys you are rich. The guy obviously didn’t empty the tip-jar with any regularity like Daud had said, and _boy_ he was just as grumpy as Daud had said too. Corvo would have almost felt sorry for the guy but, hello, the guy had a job didn’t he? He had wages, sweet moneys? Daud and Corvo had nothing but work work work sparring work, what with the championships just around the corner. Even on their ‘days off’ their coach had a workout list ten miles long for them to follow. It was criminal. And it was such a nice day.

Corvo stopped shaking the jar. “How much do you think this is? Ten? Jeez. Who would ever tip that guy anything? He was an asshole.”

“He wasn’t an asshole to me,” Daud said, taking the jar from his friend. They’d only conducted the heist because they’d left their bus money at home, and didn’t want to walk back, but it was looking like they could get a few ice cream sundaes out of this. Maybe chocolate and strawberry.

“I bet he was,” Corvo said as Daud began counting. “Did you see his name tag? It said ‘the Outsider’.”

“Maybe he’s a surrealist.”

“Maybe his real name is Keith and he is very embarrassed about that fact.”

“Or Clive.”

“Hey, don’t be an asshole. My little brother is called Clive.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“He’s not really,” Corvo was disappointed Daud had believed him, as he had thought of his friend as less of a sucker. “So how much do we have? Are we bussing?”

“Corvo my friend, we are _ice-creaming_.”

“Get out of town. Really? He got that many tips?”

“I don’t know why you’re acting like the guy was the biggest bastard in the world, he was cool,” Daud said, pouring the coin into _his_ pockets, of course, and the coin clinked and clanked very happily as though it had found the home that it had always dreamed of there.

“He wasn’t cool,” Corvo said. “He had tanlines.”

“Whatever,” Daud placed the purple jar down on the tarmac, where it clinked with a gentle _tink_. That done, he pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket (they were special designer ones he had bought with his first championship money: almost too big for his face with red frames, and they made him look like a rock star). Then he took a last drag on his cigarette, and suavely flicked it into the gutter. Yeah. Pret-ty cool.

Corvo put his glasses on, which were just plain spectacles, because his eyesight was shit and he’d left his contacts in the hostel.

He felt a little anxious just standing around on the curb, only around the corner from where the Shaky Shack lived. What if the Outsider realised he’d grabbed the tips already, and came after them? He’d looked like a weed, but, you never know. He might have super powers. Or a knife.

“I think I saw an ice cream place over the river,” Corvo said. “Come on.”

“Ok, ok,” with the tip of his Serkonos-approved flip-flop, Daud nudged the tip jar off the edge of the curb, where it teetered for a tiny second then rolled off, shattering into a few dozen colourful, coin-less pieces. Hm that was anti-social. “What’s the big hurry, you scared he’ll come after you?”

“No.”

“Ok then,” Daud said. “Let’s go.”


	2. Krakens n' Crabs

 

“Look at this marvellous crab,” Anton Sokolov said to Piero.

“Blue-frilled, adolescent,” Piero pushed up his glasses. “What’s this odd lump behind the fourth leg? A growth?”

“That’s the egg sac, you idiot.”

“No it’s not, females have green frills; these are blatantly _blue_.”

“Only to the colour blind,” Anton held up the crab close to his face. The thing waved a pincer menacingly. The frills edging the back end of its shell fluttered. “Light teal.”

“Undeniably turquoise!”

“Which is a shade of green?”

Piero nearly choked. “As of _when_!”

They were standing on a low pier that pronged out into the Wrenhaven; checking the traps they set overnight for what creatures had been brought up. It was a summer project they were working on since both had been fired from the jobs they’d gotten in July: Piero from the green grocers (he’d diseased the entire clutch of apples with ring rot in the second week to see if the Serkonan Pinks had better resistance than the Gristolian Reds to diseases from Morley. In his defence, his test sample was intended to be only five of each, but it turned out neither variety was exactly fighting fit, and whole bushels of each got the spots. He was out on his ear with threats of future litigation.). Anton, on the other hand, managed to keep his job as the butcher’s apprentice for a whole _week_ , until the butcher cottoned onto the fact he’d been feeding the dog slabs of prime cut every afternoon. Sokolov had an excuse: the dog only had three legs and one eye, and the beast was merciless in using them to its advantage. The thing was peerless in the field of emotional blackmail.

Anton put the crab in the bucket with the shrimps, and straightened up. “Shall we check the mud traps?”

“No, we’re consulting the book,” Piero swung his legs over the end of the pier, and began rooting through his bag for the field guide. It was well-thumbed, and the settler of far too many arguments already this summer. “If the colour range for females is within a _bargepole_ of blue, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Well then, I hope you’re hungry.”

A clanging on the gang-plank made the bucket jolt as somebody approached, and the water sloshed over the side. A shrimp escaped with a plop. They looked up.

“Would you watch it?” Piero snapped.

“This is an area of special scientific interest!” Anton looked up, and recognised the heavy-footed figure coming towards them. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Why aren’t you at work?” Piero asked the Outsider, who looked even more angsty than usual. “Are you fired?”

“Have you come to join out Employment Outcasts club?” Anton peered through a magnifying glass at the bulge on the crabs’ leg. Definitely an egg sac. “Because it’s full.”

The Outsider frowned. Anton and Piero were pretty much his only two friends in the whole city, but Anton never missed an opportunity to snub him. It was hurtful. It hurt. He was hurt. “No. I don’t want to join your stupid club.”

“It’s an intellectual club,” Piero said. “Geniuses only.”

“You two are mean. I just got robbed.”

“Would you say these frills are blue or green?” Anton pulled the crab out of the bucket and thrust it into the Outsider’s face. The Outsider scratched the back of his neck and looked at the ugly thing. It was sort of purply, with lilac frills. He shrugged.

Piero asked, “Who robbed you?”

“A Serkonan,” the Outsider said. “He took my tip jar. That was my bus money.”

“Perhaps you should consider getting used to walking like the rest of us bottom-feeders,” Piero jabbed at an illustration in the book. “ _There_! Callinectes sapidus, tell me Anton, what colour are those frills?”

Anton swiped the book, his eyes skimming. “Oh ho, check the region, this is Tyvian, you fool!”

“ _Guyyyys_ ,” the Outsider whined. “I don’t want to walk home. Help me find the Serkonan so I can get my money back.”

“What would be in it for us?” Anton asked. “We’ve got enough things planned without signing up for the Wrenhaven’s neighbourhood watch committee. There are mud-traps to check.”

“And that does sound thrilling,” the Outsider pushed up the brim of his cap. His black hair was flattened underneath, and he rumpled it with a free hand. “I’ll give you a discount at the Shaky Shack.”

“Diabetes Type II for a _half price_? Why didn’t you say so!” Anton sneered, and Piero cut him off.

“Half price?”

“I never said tha-” the Outsider began, but Piero interrupted.

“Half price!”

“Management will _kill_ me,” the Outsider protested. “I was thinking more in the line of a free banana.”

“Half price,” Piero said. The Outsider frowned again.

“Do you want our help or not?” Anton closed the book. The Outsider deliberated, but there really could be no question. He’d probably never catch the Serkonan alone, and Piero read a lot of detective novels, so would know the procedure when it came to tracking people down. He was a veritable gumshoe. And Anton knew everybody in town.

Also, every moment he spent away from the Shack was a moment that his absence could be noted, and reach the ears of Management. He shuddered. It was a dangerous game he played. The things he did for bus money.

“Fine! But only if we get a move on,” he fanned himself with his cap. “And only if we find the scoundrel.”

“Seems reasonable,” Piero said, and wished he had a deerstalker. He settled for pushing his spectacles up his nose in a manner he hoped oozed professionalism. “Let’s get to work.”

***

Corvo and Daud were having what was looking like a great way to start the evening. They’d gotten an ice cream from a guy called Griff, who put peanuts in Corvo’s for _free_ because he’d said he had a nice bum. He’d said it in a wholly non-lecherous way too, so Corvo was absolutely fine with it, and it had made Daud incredibly jealous. Corvo had a very mild peanut allergy, but he wasn’t going to let that stand in the way of having one over on Daud, so he ate his ice cream languorously and boastfully, gently aware that in half an hour his throat was going to itch like a nest of ants.

Then they’d gone to the fairground, and played the games that passed for fun in what was possibly one of the least fun cities they’d ever toured in. The fairground was called ‘Waterfront Amusements’, and was a bonafide dumphole. There were some terrifying looking rides, which neither had the stomach to go on, as even the teacups creaked and leaked nuts and bolts like a hardware raincloud. Some of the people who worked the place wore top hats for no good reason. A lot of them had great tattoos. Daud decided to play a game of grab the eel.

The woman running the stall had a tattoo of a sea serpent wound around her neck and face. She had a black hair shaved short, a diamond tooth, and was so devastatingly cool that it made Corvo want to faint. His heart hurt when he looked at her.

Daud asked her how to play the game.

“You grab the eel,” she said.

“What’s the prize?” Daud asked.

“You eat the eel,” she said.

Daud looked into the tank, which housed the eel. The eel had been greased with butter, and had teeth about as long as his little finger. It was as thick as a wrist around the middle, and when he stuck his head up against the glass, it gnashed its teeth together hopefully. He paid the woman some of the Outsider’s money to have three goes.

“We’re from Serkonos,” Corvo said to the woman. “We’re on the fencing team.”

“Yeah? How many fences have you put up.”

“No, it’s –” he stopped when he saw she was nearly smiling; she was having him on. He laughed. “You’re good! I like your tattoos.”

“Thanks,” she said. “My sister does them for me. I don’t know where she is now; she was supposed to be running the stall with me today. She’s such an _artiste_.”

There was a violent thrashing; Daud had almost grabbed the thing and had got it halfway out of the water before it savaged his thumb. He swore in Serkonan, and they went back to their conversation. Corvo leant on the counter.

“I like the serpent on your neck,” he said. It was a proper mean looking thing: with purple scales flowing into blues and yellows, hooked teeth and a beady red eye. “Very cool.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve got a dragon on my foot.”

“Nice!”

She lifted up her arms, and he saw in each armpit there was a small, horrible kraken. “ _Amazing_!”

“And here,” she turned around, and he saw at the nape of her neck, there was written KALDWINNING. “That’s my surname. Kaldwin. I’m Jessamine.”

“That’s such a nice name-” Corvo began, but was interrupted by a shriek as the eel latched itself onto Daud’s hand again. He rolled over with it, and took it down, grappling with it on the grass. The wrestling match went on for several minutes, until Daud lost. The eel got away.

“Bummer,” he said.

“Good fight,” Corvo said.

“Do you want to try again?” Jessamine said. Daud considered. His hand was bleeding a lot, and blood was running through onto the green grass. The eel had deserved its win.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said. “I know when I’m beat.”

“You can get fried eel at the stand down the row,” Jessamine said. “You could always just tell people you won. I won’t snitch.”

“Dishonesty?” Daud rubbed his chin. He needed to shave. “I like it.”

Jessamine bent down the grasp the eel, and dumped it back into the tank with ease Daud and Corvo could only goggle at. Corvo asked her what she was doing later, and she said she didn’t know, but she might go to the club. He got her number anyway, and Daud casually inquired about her sister’s number.

“Delilah would eat you for breakfast,” Jessamine said. “You’re not exactly her type.”

Daud’s face crumpled into a deep frown, and he lit a brown cigarillo. “I’m everybody’s type.” He showed her his bicep. She laughed at him. Daud said he wanted to leave.

“Uh, _fine_ ,” Corvo said. “I’ll see you later, Jessaline.”

“ _Jessamine_ ,” she gave him the finger, and he blew her a very cheesy Serkonan kiss. Daud stomped off.

***

Anton, Piero, and the Outsider were on the case. The sun overhead was sinking fast, and streetlights came on with a flickering buzz. The Outsider was getting his money’s worth out of Piero Joplin’s number one unemployed scientist’s detective agency.

“There!” Piero crouched down, pushing his glasses up his nose. The tarmac under his thin sandals was cooling down, but the trail of the Serkonan thieves was hot hot hot. He picked up a piece of purple glass.

“Recognise _this_?” he asked the Outsider. The Outsider looked up from playing on his phone.

“Yeah; that’s from my tip jar,” the Outsider said. “He must have smashed it! What an asshole.”

“Indeed,” Piero said, feeling smug that he’d found something so fast. If the Nobel Prize route didn’t work out, he should open shop as a P.I. “So they took your tips, smashed the jar, and headed ...” he paused, and thought about the road. If they took it up over the river, as they might have done to try and put distance between the Outsider and themselves, they probably headed into town. It was a hot day. Maybe they got an ice cream. “That way.”

“How do you know that?” the Outsider asked.

“It seems probable. An eighty percent certainty rate.”

“You just made that figure up to impress the layman,” Anton said, “It doesn’t mean anything.”

The Outsider felt offended. “I’m not a layman.”

“Be that as it may, he probably _did_ go this way,” Piero said. “He’s not likely to head back a way that he’d have to pass the Shaky Shack, is he?”

“I’m not arguing your hypothesis, I’m arguing the pretence it’s supported with anything other than common sense.”

“Oh go boil your head; you’re clearly still hung up on the blue frilled crab that you were so woefully mistaken about.”

“Those frills were green, _idź do diabła_!”Anton swore in Tyvian, which was a bit redundant since he’d been badmouthing Piero for so many years that Piero knew all of the Tyvian curses. He’d just been told to go to hell, so Piero replied glibly;

“ _Nie_ ; we go to Serkonos.”

The Game Over music sounded as the Outsider’s snake torpedoed another wall, and he wished Piero and Anton would wrap it up. They didn’t seem to understand that this was a timed mission. “Can we get a move on? I never said I would pay by the hour.”

The predictable answer that you could not hurry brilliance came from the two of them, but at least they got a wriggle on and headed into town. Anton said he’d make some calls, and ask if anybody had seen a Serkonan by the Outsider’s description around the place. Based on the fact that Corvo was apparently still wearing his uniform, it shouldn’t be too hard. The first call he placed was to his good friend, Delilah Copperspoon. Delilah said she’d meet them at eight when she got on shift at the fairground, since she was _apparently_ covering her step-sister tonight, who was skipping out on her to go clubbing. Anton asked to be spared the Kaldwin melodrama. He also asked for her to hold him back a slice of eel pie. She said ok.


End file.
